


Through a Mirror Darkly

by InvisibleasMusic



Series: Fairytale Snippets [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, The Lady of Shalott - Alfred Lord Tennyson
Genre: And Of Course - Freeform, Headcanon, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Or Is It?, Snippets, Warning for, challenge: spot the Keats reference, curse-induced memory loss, have an overused quote instead, inspired by my love of British Victorian and Romantic Poetry, just incase, my love for fairytales myths and legends, no alliteration this time sorry, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23536702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvisibleasMusic/pseuds/InvisibleasMusic
Summary: Prior to her fateful encounter with Sir Lancelot, the fairy lady of Shalott ponders her nature and her fate.
Series: Fairytale Snippets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693786
Kudos: 2





	Through a Mirror Darkly

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the tags, this snippet was inspired by my love for British Victorian and Romantic Poetry, in this case Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott". However, I would be remiss if I didn't mention my other source of head-canon inspiration regarding curses and memory loss, Robin McKinley's wonderful novel "Spindle's End", one of the best retellings of Sleeping Beauty that I have ever read. I cannot recommend it (or her other works) enough.

_No time hath she to sport and play:_   
_A charmed web she weaves alway._   
_A curse is on her, if she stay_   
_Her weaving, either night or day,_   
_To look down to Camelot._   
_She knows not what the curse may be;_   
_Therefore she weaveth steadily,_   
_Therefore no other care hath she,_   
_The Lady of Shalott._

_She lives with little joy or fear._   
_Over the water, running near,_   
_The sheepbell tinkles in her ear._   
_Before her hangs a mirror clear,_   
_Reflecting tower'd Camelot._

_-The Lady of Shalott,_ Tennyson

I do not know how long I have been weaving, and perhaps that should not bother me, for the flow of time has little meaning for the fae, but even so, I…cannot think of how long I have been here in my tower room.

I weave whatever I see in the mirror (my only way to glimpse the outside world when it is forbidden for me to even glance out my own window) that catches my fancy, or more rarely, whatever I remember of my life before…it seems so far away now. It is well known to me how mortals, when caught up in faery sport, can lose hours or centuries, waking to a changed world with only a hint of a dream to remind them, but for the first time I wonder if such magic can have the same effect on a fae…on me.

I sing as well, as much to try and forget my own loneliness as to help me keep the rhythm of my work. It helps but little, for there are few songs I know that are meant to be sung without another, and though my voice is enchanting (literally as no few mortal men could attest), to me it sounds flat without accompanying harmonies, like the moan of the wind through my open window, the wind I can feel, but never see.

So I weave and I sing, and my hands never tire, nor does my voice become weary. No hunger or thirst disturbs me, and my hands are now so familiar at their task that even in dream they pass the shuttle. It is powerful magic, tiring me as little else could (magic always has a price), but it is the only way to avoid the curse. That is the one memory of my past that has remained as bright and clear as my mirror, the knowledge that I am cursed. I know not what form the curse may take (what terrible punishment awaits me should I falter), only what I must do to avoid fulfilling it. I must not stop, I must not turn to gaze with my own eyes on the outside world, I must not look on Camelot.

Strange, the power a mortal kingdom holds, though perhaps stranger still is the attraction, even to the fae (no small number of my fellows, some far stronger than I, have found it interwoven with their destinies). Most of my woven scenes are born because of it, the knights and ladies passing by, or even the shepherds with their flocks, as they travel toward the village that supports the great castle (part of me aches to realize I am reduced to detailing the passage of sheep). Secondhand glimmers of the pomp and squalor that comprise mortal life.

It is the knights I watch the most, the knights…and the lovers. I was never as promiscuous as many of my kin, but I have never been immune to the charms of valiant knights, and the ones this Arthur has chosen to surround himself with are more valiant than most. It is not in the nature of the fae to be constant, not in the way of mortals, and I feel no shame in admitting that. I have loved in the fashion of my kind, passionate but quickly fading once the first blush has left the bloom, though I have never been cruel to my conquests (even though it would be so easy and still they would burn for me… la belle dame sans merci indeed). My lovers spent no more than a dream-night with me, and I never asked their names. That was my kindness to myself, even a mayfly can be missed, if it is known by name.

I glance up from my work, gazing into my mirror: blue sky, flowers, and the deeper blue glimmer of the river, distant pennants waving in a distant breeze, nothing has changed. I keep weaving. All that is mortal must pass away, Camelot cannot stand forever, and it is worth spending my magic (worth the price I’ll have to pay) if I can just hold out a little longer. Surely the curse cannot seize me if Camelot is not there for me to gaze upon? I am fae. I am patient and I can wait, only, I do not know…how long have I been weaving?


End file.
